


Green Tea Ice Cream

by CakeMoney



Series: Dragons? [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 10:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11103084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CakeMoney/pseuds/CakeMoney
Summary: Oikawa, sitting cross-legged next to Koutarou, looked up. “Who’s Keiji?”Koutarou blinked at him.“Oh no,” Kuroo whispered.“You just had to ask,” Sawamura sighed, flipping a page in the newspaper.“I haven’t told you about Keiji?” Koutarou cried, horrified, taking hold of Oikawa’s shoulders. (There he goes, Kuroo sighed.) “He’s only the mostbeautifulcreature inexistence!”





	Green Tea Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a birthday gift for [Lomeki](http://lomeki.tumblr.com), but then my brain just decided to forget how to write and so this is... very late...
> 
> This occurs after Spicy Shrimp Chips. I think it could probably still make sense without it, but I would strongly encourage reading Spicy Shrimp Chips first anyway because there is somewhat vital information
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! As a friend of mine famously said: "The only bad Bokuaka is the lack of Bokuaka"

Koutarou could remember the first time he met Keiji like it was yesterday.

It was Koutarou’s first time in Tokyo—he was so young, then, only fifty-something years old, barely a proper kitsune, and Yukie only agreed to take him along because Koutarou promised to behave and keep up in the market and not get lost. Which, of course, meant that Koutarou got lost pretty much immediately and spent the rest of the evening running through the crowd and setting small fires everywhere.

He didn’t cry, though! It wasn’t a traumatic experience at all! He was perfectly equipped, as an adult fox, to find his way.

Eventually he was so lost that he wasn’t even in the market anymore, but on a quiet, deserted street in what looked like a residential area, and at this point Koutarou was panicking so hard that he had to sit down. Tokyo was a big city, wasn’t it? What if he never found his way back to Yukie? What if he had to live behind trash cans and beg for food?

“Excuse me,” someone said. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

Koutarou looked up, and his heart nearly stopped. The stranger was holding his hoshi-no-tama. Ever since he became an actual kitsune, losing his hoshi-no-tama was the only thing Yukie and Akinori and, gods, even Yamato ever got mad at him about. His first time in Tokyo and he’s already gotten separated from his guardian and caused property damage and lost the literal source of his power and at this point, Koutarou might as well just live the rest of his life in hiding among humans.

“Sir,” the stranger said, kneeling down so that he was eye-level with Koutarou. He didn’t smile, exactly, but there was something gentle in his expression, in the way he reached out to touch Koutarou’s shoulder. “Breathe with me. You’re going to be fine.”

Koutarou looked at him, the man he would come to know as Akaashi Keiji, and his crippling distress was briefly overtaken by deep indignation on Keiji’s part that the background was so incredibly inappropriate. It should have been spring, with pink and white flower petals in the air; instead of dim streetlights Keiji should have been backlit by a sunset or a clear full moon.

“Here,” he said, taking Koutarou’s hand and giving the hoshi-no-tama back to him. Nothing like the horror stories Akinori and Haruki told him; nothing but a calming voice and the lightest touch. “Be careful with it, all right?”

“I,” Koutarou started, then forgot where he was going with it. He stared at Keiji’s dark eyes, his fluffy black hair, the smooth pale skin and the line of his jaw. His insides were fluttering, but in a nice way. “My name’s Koutarou,” he declared, suddenly, and this is the part of the story where Akinori would drop his face into his hands with a _I can’t believe this_.

“Koutarou-san,” Keiji said. “You shouldn’t be here alone. Where are your friends?”

It was clear that Keiji _knew_ , but he didn’t remark on it, so Koutarou didn’t either. As Keiji walked him back to the train station, Koutarou kept playing with the hoshi-no-tama, tossing it from hand to hand. _Take it back_ , he thought, as Keiji explained their route. _Take it from me, make me do something for you, don’t let me leave_.

When Keiji handed Koutarou back to an immensely relieved Yukie, Koutarou finally couldn’t take it anymore. “You didn’t tell me your name!” he snapped, when Keiji and Yukie were bowing to each other and it was all too mature and understated for how breathless Koutarou felt. “How am I supposed to find you again?”

Keiji looked at him. He still wasn’t smiling, but there was a little bit of it in his eyes, Koutarou could tell. “The idea is that you won’t,” he said, drily, but added, “I’m Akaashi.”

It took a miracle and a half to convince Yukie to bring Koutarou along on her next trip; this time, when Koutarou stepped off the train, he got lost on purpose.

 

* * *

 

There were a lot of reasons Koutarou decided to move in with Kuroo. It was convenient, for one, close to campus and to the train station. Kuroo, despite being a tanuki, was well-liked by everyone in Koutarou’s family. And, of course, the third reason—the main reason—the only reason that mattered: Kuroo was incredibly good at cooking. Koutarou wasn’t sure even Kuroo himself realized how good he was at it. By Koutarou’s estimation, Kuroo could probably become a celebrity chef at any point in time, if he wasn’t so passionate about chemistry (or whatever it was he was studying).

For example, the steaks Kuroo made today for their weekly Saturday dinner: perfectly seared, perfectly seasoned, just the right point between rare and medium rare.

“You know, there are knives that are designed for cutting meat,” Kuroo said, barely holding in his laughter. He had on his adorable apron, and his hair was in three scrunchie ponytails. “So that you don’t have to tear it with your teeth, you savage.”

“It’s faster this way!” Koutarou tried to explain. Unfortunately, he had his entire steak in his mouth.

Oikawa was cutting his steak methodically, frowning at the pink inside. “I’m still not sure if I like these. Couldn’t you have made fish? Eels were on sale today.”

“But you’re a fish!” Koutarou protested. Oikawa stared at him, as though he didn’t understand, although Koutarou wasn’t sure if it was the logic or the steak that was the problem. Just in case, he elaborated: “If you’re a fish and you eat fish, that’s cannibalism!”

Sawamura, Kuroo, and Oikawa all looked at Koutarou with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Bokuto,” Oikawa said, lips twitching. (So it _wasn’t_ the steak.) “What is it that you think I usually eat?”

It took Koutarou a moment to envision Oikawa, as a fish (or fish person?) underwater. What else lived there? Turtles? Frogs? Did Oikawa jump out of the water to catch dragonflies?

“Oh my God,” Koutarou shouted, swallowing the meat with some difficulty. “Oh my God, Oikawa, you’re a cannibal?” He scrambled out of his seat to hide behind Kuroo. “Stay away from me!”

Oikawa and Kuroo traded a look. Slowly, Oikawa began to grin, and Koutarou wasn’t sure what was going on before Kuroo spun around and grabbed Koutarou, holding him in place while Oikawa darted around the table to tickle Koutarou. “You’ve blown my cover,” Oikawa said, trying and failing to keep his voice deep and villainy as Koutarou shrieked and wiggled and tried to escape Oikawa’s fingers. “I guess I’ll have to eat you now, so that you can’t warn other people about me.”

“Nooooooo,” Koutarou squealed, finally breaking free and scrambling into Sawamura’s lap. “They’re bullying me! Protect me, Sawamura!”

Sawamura let out his long-suffering sigh, but he did set down his knife and fork. “I suppose there’s no other way,” he said, face grim, rolling up his sleeves. “This is war.”

“Oh shit,” Oikawa squeaked and ducked under the table.

Afterwards, with the living room a mess and some of Oikawa’s food slightly on fire, all four of them collapsed on the ground. Koutarou’s stomach hurt from laughing; his head was cushioned on Kuroo’s chest, and he could feel his heaving breaths.

“Hey, that reminds me,” Kuroo said. “I’ve been wondering—are there different species of ningyo?”

Oikawa was still panting from when he and Sawamura resorted to a brief slapping fight that knocked over their entire couch. “I suppose, yeah. Most of my tribe are freshwater fish, but my—uh—my friend, Hajime, is more closely related to a shark. We even have a pufferfish! He has black stripes and he’s so _adorable_ , especially when he’s embarrassed.” There’s something incredibly fond in his voice, halfway between a wistful sigh and a resigned ache, when he said: “I hope they’re doing all right.”

Koutarou rolled over to face Oikawa. “Tell them to visit sometime! We’d love to meet them!”

Oikawa smiled at the ceiling weakly. “Sure, I’ll do that.”

 

* * *

 

“No, no,” Kuroo spluttered, waving his hands frantically until Koutarou stopped writing. Kuroo’s strangely encyclopedic knowledge and voluntary tutoring was another bonus that came with this apartment. “You’re overthinking this, Bokuto. One step at a time. A big problem can be broken down into little components.”

“You sound like Keiji,” Koutarou grumbled. Just because he _knew_ that this mass of numbers and brackets and tangents could be broken down didn’t mean that it didn’t still tower over him. Sometimes a big problem was just a big problem, and Koutarou just wanted to tackle it to the ground. “That doesn’t make any sense!”

Oikawa, sitting cross-legged next to Koutarou, looked up. “Who’s Keiji?”

Koutarou blinked at him.

“Oh no,” Kuroo whispered.

“You just had to ask,” Sawamura sighed, flipping a page in the newspaper.

“I haven’t told you about Keiji?” Koutarou cried, horrified, taking hold of Oikawa’s shoulders. ( _There he goes_ , Kuroo sighed.) “He’s only the most _beautiful_ creature in _existence_!”

Koutarou could describe everything in exact, painstaking detail—the minute differences in Keiji’s expression when he was bored or tired or interested but disbelieving or about to deeply wound someone with his words, the way he raised his eyebrows when he was annoyed and the way he pursed his lips when he was thinking. He could talk for days about how Keiji’s reaction to Koutarou’s jokes—struggling to hold a stern, unimpressed face, lips quirked up at the edges—made Koutarou’s chest feel warm and tight (and had caused Koutarou to set several fires). When Keiji first told Koutarou to just call him Keiji, because _it sounds nicer, I guess_ , Koutarou was so ecstatic he couldn’t sleep for a solid week. When they first kissed, out of sight behind the shrine, Koutarou had almost started crying and Keiji had looked so worried that Koutarou started laughing and then they were both laughing and in tears and Keiji’s laugh was the most breathtaking sight in the world.

He could remember the second time they met, when Yukie (this time with a leash around Koutarou’s waist) led the group to one of the Inari shrines in the city. Keiji was sitting on the front steps, as though he’d been waiting there since Koutarou boarded that train.

_I thought I’d see you again eventually if I hung around here_ , Keiji had said, as though that explained everything. Koutarou had grabbed both his hands in his excitement, and Keiji hadn’t been in any hurry to let go.

Keiji had promised Yukie that he would look after Koutarou while she got business done. He spent hours every time walking Koutarou around the city. Koutarou could remember every word Keiji said, every step they took, every corner they stood on. The way Keiji looked, the way he moved, the way he spoke and gestured was burned into Koutarou’s mind, was constantly present everywhere Koutarou went. He could never be lost in Tokyo again.

“One time, I accidentally set his sleeve on fire,” Koutarou said, overwhelmed by all these wonderful, perfect memories with Keiji. “And I was _freaking out_ and yelling and running in a circle and looking for water, but he just—” Koutarou tried to mime the action, significantly less elegant than what Keiji actually did “—just folded up his sleeve and snuffed it out. And then he just kept walking, because he’s _so cool_.”

“Wow,” Oikawa said.

“Wow,” Sawamura agreed, his voice monotone.

“You guys, your calculus homework is still here,” Kuroo sang, waving his pen.

“Keiji is so amazing,” Koutarou shouted, electing to ignore Kuroo. “I can’t wait for you guys to meet him!”

 

* * *

 

“Kou!” Akinori cried the moment Koutarou opened the door. “We’ve missed you!”

“Aki!” Koutarou let out an _oomph_ when Haruki jumped on him, looping his arms around Koutarou’s neck. “Haru! I—oof—I’ve missed you guys, too!” He hugged Akinori as best as he could while Haruki was dangling off of him. “You guys are just in time for dinner!”

There was a whirlwind of action, and Koutarou was at the center, hauling their luggage into his room and getting them drinks (“Kou, it’s fine, we’re— _holy shit_ ”) and introducing them to Oikawa (“This is Oikawa! He’s a fish!”). Haruki, in particular, didn’t really visit the human world often, so aside from still dressing like he lived in the post-war era, he also acted like every minute detail was a novelty (and the funniest novelty he’s ever encountered), and badgered Koutarou into demonstrating the number of TV channels they had.

“Man,” Haruki said, sounding as old as Sawamura. “ _Technology_.”

“Haruki,” Koutarou said, not really sure how he felt about it. It was kind of funny, but it was also the kind of thing fifty-year-old Koutarou fell for. “You don’t have to pretend you’ve never seen one. I know Yukie brought a TV home last time.”

Haruki grinned at him. “Yeah, but we don’t have any signal. All Yukie does is play Wii.”

Koutarou shoved him, and Haruki let him, still grinning. Ever since Koutarou was little, Haruki had always gone easy on him when they were play fighting, always careful not to be too rough, always letting Koutarou win even though he was stronger. “You guys should visit when I don’t have school,” Koutarou said, still not really sure if he should be annoyed. “I could show you guys around Tokyo. There are a lot of fun things to do! Do you guys like green tea ice cream? I know this really great place!”

“Next time, Kou,” Haruki said, bumping his shoulder.

“I’ll help Kuroo set the table,” Akinori called, heading into the kitchen.

Koutarou wasn’t stupid. At this point, he kind of wondered if they were being so transparent on purpose. They had to know Koutarou knew they talk about him, right? It wasn’t as though Koutarou hadn’t grown at all this whole time he was in the human world, even though Akinori still constantly looked two seconds away from cooing at him.

“Hey, do you guys have any video games?” Haruki asked, crouching down in front of the TV stand, as obvious a distraction as possible.

“Thank you for letting us stay here,” Akinori said, voice low. It did not miss Koutarou’s attention that nothing went up in flames. “And thank you for taking care of him.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” Kuroo promised. “It’s great having him around.”

“I’m glad he’s having a good time here.”

Kuroo hesitated for a beat before he said: “Maybe too good a time?”

There was silence. Koutarou wasn’t stupid. He knew why Akinori and Haruki were really here, regardless of the excuses they gave him.

“Of course we miss him,” Akinori finally said. “He’s the entire clan’s baby brother. But there’s nothing wrong with him living in Tokyo.”

“Don’t most kitsune his age have three tails, at least?”

Akinori let out a laugh, though he didn’t sound amused. “I mean, they usually have practiced their magic more, and he _does_ have really bad control.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “Of course it would be great to have him back, but… we want what’s best for him, that’s all. We just want him to be happy. There’s no rush.”

“Do you really think so?” Kuroo asked; something in his voice made Koutarou shiver, and this part, at least, Koutarou knew he was meant to hear. “Just because we _can_ live forever doesn’t mean we will.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re late,” Sawamura said, when Koutarou closed the apartment door behind him. He didn’t look up from his newspaper until Koutarou flopped face-first onto the couch. “Bokuto?”

Koutarou stared deep into the crevice between the cushions. It only took a minute before Kuroo was walking out of the kitchen, taking off his oven mitts, and sitting down by Koutarou. “What’s wrong, buddy?” he asked.

Koutarou tried not to sniffle. “I thought I saw Keiji today. But it wasn’t him, it was just a random student.”

Kuroo was silent for a long moment. “Bokuto, listen,” he started, and Koutarou wanted to let Kuroo do what he did best, support him and comfort him and feed him tea until he burst.

But Koutarou knew what Kuroo was going to say, and he couldn’t take it. Not now.

“I just—” Koutarou felt his throat close up, and he really, really hoped that Akinori and Haruki were out on whatever other business they had. “I was so excited to play volleyball, but then I thought I saw him and I got even more excited, but then—” His eyes were watering; he pressed his face into the cushion and let out a muffled: “I just want to see him again.”

If Keiji was here, Koutarou knew he would know exactly how to soothe him, would cradle his head in his lap and run his fingers through Koutarou’s hair. He would tell Koutarou bluntly that he was getting his clothes wet, but he would make sure Koutarou knew that he didn’t mind, and even if he complained that he had other work to do, he would stay with Koutarou for hours. Even when Koutarou was upset, the last time they saw each other, Keiji had smoothed away his frown so easily with a kiss and a smile.

Of course, if Keiji was here, Koutarou wouldn’t be crying in the first place.

“Bokuto,” Kuroo said, his voice infinitely soft and infinitely kind, his hand warm and grounding, and Koutarou couldn’t handle it. “You know, you only ever met Akaashi in the city. Even if he could see who you were—even if he seemed magical—”

“Stop,” Koutarou whispered. “Stop it.”

“Konoha said that Akaashi didn’t let you go with him so that you wouldn’t see—”

Koutarou knew what Kuroo was saying, and he knew that it was _wrong_. Keiji couldn’t be dead. He was far too beautiful, far too brilliant, far too _important_ to be mortal. There was simply no way. Koutarou had never been so sure of anything in his life.

“He promised that he’s going to come back,” Koutarou insisted. “He said he wasn’t sick.”

“A hundred years is a long time to wait for someone, Bokuto,” Kuroo said.

Koutarou could still see the scene, when he closed his eyes—Keiji standing at the train station, one single suitcase in his hand. The wind blew flower petals through his hair, and in the light of the dying sun Keiji almost seemed to glow. _I’ll be back soon_ , he had said, laying his cool hand on Koutarou’s cheek. He looked too tired to smile properly, but Koutarou always thought Keiji spoke better with his eyes anyway. When Koutarou held Keiji close, Keiji murmured reassurances until Koutarou stopped trembling. _I’ll see you soon, it’ll be like I was never gone. There’s nothing to be scared of, Koutarou._

_I’ll be waiting right here_ , Koutarou had said, after Keiji kissed him on the mouth and finally got on the train.

_Maybe not right there_ , Keiji had replied, because Keiji never let him get away with any hyperboles. _You’ll get in everyone else’s way_.

A hundred years wasn’t long, not for kitsune, but every day without Keiji felt like the longest day of Koutarou’s life. What was the point of living forever, if eternity felt like this?

Kuroo sighed. “Okay, Bokuto,” he said, backing off. “Okay. Dinner’s almost ready. Let’s not make Konoha and Komi worry, huh?”

 

* * *

 

“Your train should be here soon,” Koutarou said, checking the timetable. “Do you guys need anything else? Water? Snacks?”

“Look at him, all grown up and responsible,” Haruki sniffed, pretending to wipe a tear.

Akinori snorted. “We’re good, Koutarou.” He threw an arm around Koutarou’s shoulder. “Come home once in a while, okay? Everyone would love to see you.”

“Yeah, man. Facetiming isn’t the same.” Haruki made a face. “And it’s so laggy.”

“And Yukie still has your room,” Akinori added. “We didn’t touch anything, promise.”

“It’ll be Tatsuki’s birthday in a few weeks,” Haruki continued. They’re double-teaming Koutarou, which wasn’t fair, but there was also something desperate in this back-and-forth. “It’ll be great if you can make it.”

“And Yamato has gotten really good at cooking.” Akinori took a deep breath. “And—”

“I will,” Koutarou said. He said that every time they came to visit him. “I’ll come home soon, I promise.”

Akinori and Haruki exchanged a look. “Yeah, okay,” Akinori said, eyes bright with a strangely familiar hope. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Have a safe trip,” Koutarou called, waving, kept waving even when they’ve turned and couldn’t see him anymore.

He hung around the train station for a little more, until the security started eyeing him and he had to leave. He’d thought about going back before—he’d tried, was almost through buying a ticket before panic seized him because _what if Keiji came back and didn’t find me, what if Keiji thinks I forgot him or stopped waiting or left, what if I miss Keiji and have to wait another hundred years to see him_. Every morning he jogged by this train station—so different now, so much bigger and brighter—just to be sure. Just in case. Sometimes he came by after classes—there was a yakiniku restaurant across the street from the train station, and Koutarou had been there so many times that they invented a membership card program for him, and next door there was a coffee shop that had changed owners five or six times but always made really good green tea ice cream, and every single employee, past or present, knew Koutarou by name. He told some of them about Keiji; some look at him with pity, others with sympathy. One thought it was the greatest love story of all time and wanted to write a book about it.

He had visited Keiji’s temple every day until it shut down; one of the priests there had enlisted him to help teach some kids volleyball, and he hadn’t stopped playing since.

_A hundred years is a long time to wait for someone_.

He was almost about to head back to the apartment when someone caught his eye—fluffy black hair stark against pale skin, moving through the crowd. For a split second Koutarou was frozen—maybe because a part of him had actually come to expect not seeing Keiji here; maybe because he was terrified of that feeling, his stomach dropping out under him, every time he chased someone who looked like Keiji and then found out it wasn’t him. Maybe he was even afraid that Keiji had forgotten him, that his promise never meant anything anyway.

Keiji disappeared behind a column, reappeared on the other side. Koutarou ran after him.

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate Title: Why Are There No Dragons
> 
> Full Disclosure: The guy Bokuto saw before volleyball practice was [Suna Rintarou](http://haikyuu.wikia.com/wiki/Rintar%C5%8D_Suna), Akaashi's also-tired doppelganger
> 
> Feel free to come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://cakemoney.tumblr.com) anytime and yell at me about why I like being in pain or something


End file.
